What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Alison sends the first chapter of a lower YA fantasy, The Girl with the Dragon-racoon. The first 17 lines follow, the rest is after the break.

Twenty minutes into her journey, and with at least twenty more to come, Emma fought the urge to pull into a side road and turn around, her irritation at being deceived rising. Not that she should have been surprised, given all the other instances where the truth had been bent a little. This would have to be the last time, whatever happened. She’d had enough.

Time, alarmingly, was marching on. Maybe a straight section of road would be just around the next corner, and she’d be able to go a little faster. At least to the speed limit. She rounded the bend, peering ahead, and the sight that greeted her had her hitting the brake hard, teeth clenched, hands tight around the steering wheel. A flatbed truck was approaching, only on her side of the road as it attempted to pass another vehicle.

The truck swung back to its own side, tipping perilously as it did so, and the driver, erudite fellow as he must have been, leaned out of his open window and flicked her a V sign whilst mouthing furious profanities.

Emma’s mouth fell open and she watched the truck disappear through her rear view mirror. Charming, she thought. Well good luck to him. It mattered little to her that his life expectancy would likely be short, but she felt sorry for any innocent party he might end up taking out with him. It was a scary thought – destiny dictating that you would cross paths with the likes of him, and being a safe and conscientious driver would matter not. Your fate would be (snip)

The writing is just fine in this opening, and it does open with an immediate scene. There’s a bit of tension with the oncoming truck, but that’s soon resolved. Emma is anxious, needing to get somewhere without breaking a time limit.

But where? Why? Does something on this page endanger her from achieving her goal? What are the stakes of not being on time? If it’s a job interview, it could mean the loss of the opportunity—but we don’t know that. And how bad can that be?

And that’s the primary problem for me with this opening. There’s no hint of what the story is about, it is devoted solely to driving to somewhere, and nothing goes wrong with that. In a recent post on Writer Unboxed, author Kathyn Craft says this:

Effective opening scenes orient your reader to a story’s core conflict while raising pertinent questions about the plot to come.

That’s basically what I advocate here on FtQ. In this opening scene, we don’t have an idea of what the story is about, much less its core conflict (and I’m talking about the whole chapter here, not just the first page). There are no story questions raised. No stakes related to either action or inaction. In other words, no tension to drive a reader to turn the page.

I think we have here a narrative that starts way too soon in the arc of the story. This is all setup, not story. The writing is good and Alison has a clear grasp of her character, so I encourage her to look further for the place where something goes wrong for Emma that is related to the story and begins to show how she deals with it. And there should be meaningful stakes—not getting a job is, ordinarily, not a terrible event.

It was going to be tight. The dashboard clock told her that. She mustn’t be late, but where was this place? It had to be around here somewhere.

“You have reached your destination,” announced the satnav smoothly.

Emma’s eyes darted around, just in time to see the sharp left turn she should have taken disappear behind her. Panicked, she flung the car at the next left, landing unintentionally in a supermarket car park.

Now stressed, the unpleasantness of her predicament intensified as she drifted past rows of parked cars, chewing her lip as her mind raced through the limited options. Renegotiating the one-way system was out of the question. It had been tricky enough the first time in this unfamiliar town, and would certainly take too long. Yet if she stayed put, a ticket might end up being slapped on her windscreen.

She made her decision and drove on with purpose, consoling herself with the notion that if all went to plan, at least she’d be able to afford to pay the fine. She headed to the far end of the car park, choosing a space that faced the rear wall of a red brick building. A space she hoped would be obscured from the view of genuine shoppers, and any lurking parking attendants, by a huge stack of trollies.

She grabbed her handbag and scrambled from the car, striving to get her bearings. Surely she had parked against the rear of JCA House? As she looked up at its windows, dressed with office-like vertical blue blinds, she noticed a sign, directly above her car, which proclaimed in large black letters that spending twenty pounds in the store granted two hours of free parking. Renewed hope surged through her, and she looked forward to drinking the wine that she now planned to buy here afterwards. She’d likely need it.

The main road was some twenty meters away to her left. Slinging her handbag onto her shoulder, she bolted towards it, clicking the car key as she went. A soft clunk confirmed that the doors were locked.

She was sprinting now, closing the distance to the road with every stride. Between the parked cars lay a path, flanked on either side by waist-high red berried bushes, behind which, Emma saw, was a woman approaching from the right. Realising that there would not be room for both of them on the narrow path, Emma silently begged the woman to carry on along the main road. The outlook was bleak. Emma could already sense a shift in her trajectory, and in what was surely a practised move, her arms outstretched, she successfully used a pram, previously hidden by the bushes, to stake her claim to the path.

Emma, defeated, juddered to a halt. She stood back and forced a tight smile in response to the young mum’s beaming face. Clenching her jaw in frustration, Emma couldn’t help feeling irked at the woman’s inability to either notice or care that she was obviously in a hurry. Guiltily, thought of her next door neighbour, mother to twin girls, and the horror stories of timing shopping trips with military precision, in the tiny window of opportunity between feeds and nappy changes.

As the two women came face to face, the young mother breathlessly bursting with pride, the merest pause and fractional adjustment to the pram’s position indicated that she now assumed Emma would take the time to coo over her baby. Under different circumstances she would have done so gladly, but not today. And certainly not after having deferred to a woman who didn’t seem to be in so much of a rush after all.

Not particularly concerned about appearing rude, Emma all but vaulted around the woman, avoiding a collision with her and contact with the bushes’ dense, prickly leaves in one lithe movement. There was no need to add shredded tights to her list of problems. A quick glance back saw the rather bewildered woman watching Emma depart. Sorry love, thought Emma. You can’t have it both ways.

Once on the main road, Emma turned right, catching her flailing handbag and clasping it tightly to her side as she ran. After only a few steps, she recognised the entrance to the JCA Ltd car park. Energised by the sight of the finishing line, she hurtled towards the bulky wooden front door, bursting through it with enough force to cause the young blonde receptionist beyond to look up in surprise.

“Can I help you?” she asked, as Emma approached at speed.

“Yes,” Emma panted, reaching the large reception desk and clutching its edge with a steadying hand. “My name’s Emma Stott. I’m here to meet Mr. Quinn.” A quick peek at the clock mounted on the wall behind the receptionist told her it was one minute to three. She mentally punched the air, victorious.

“Ah yes, please take a seat Emma” said the blonde woman, who, having recovered from the shock of Emma’s explosive entry, had clearly been expecting her. “I’ll let Mr. Quinn know you’re here,” she added, extending her arm towards a bank of three black faux leather chairs to the right of where Emma stood.

“Thank you.” Emma sat down and tried to calm her breathing whilst looking around for the ladies. “Would you mind if I…” she began, but the receptionist already had the phone pressed to her ear. She held up a perfectly manicured finger and began speaking into the receiver.

“Hi Terry. I have Emma Stott in reception for you,” she said. After listening briefly, she replaced the receiver and announced cheerily that Mr. Quinn was on his way.

“Oh, thank you,” said Emma. Damn it! The opportunity to use the bathroom had vanished, and Mr. Quinn was about to find shaking her clammy hand an unpleasant experience. She quickly rummaged in her bag and pulled out a tissue, doing her best to undertake some discrete dabbing. The receptionist, thankfully, remained unaware, having busied herself with some task or other.

Emma, with a side-long glance, noticed with envy that the young woman, mid-twenties at a guess, was a vision of cool sophistication, in a crisp white sleeveless blouse, immaculate make-up and neatly styled ponytail. The contrast to Emma’s appearance couldn’t have been greater, her burning face devoid of make-up, her hair, well, clean at least, and a blouse creased enough to render removing her suit jacket impossible, despite the warmth of the September afternoon. A warmth that was also creating all sorts of issues with those tights. Her face burned deeper.

As if sensing the scrutiny, the younger woman looked up. “Did you come far?” she asked pleasantly. Emma imagined the unfinished part of that question: via a hedge backwards perhaps? It wasn’t too far from the truth, as it happened.

“A fair way, yes.” The door to the left of the reception desk swung open, cutting short Emma’s reply, and a stocky, dark-haired man strode across the grey carpeted floor, his hand outstretched in greeting. He wasn’t tall, yet presented an imposing figure. It was more than the buzz cut that immediately gave Emma the impression he was ex-military, or police perhaps.

He introduced himself with a broad grin. “Terry Quinn. You must be Emma?”

“Yes, Emma Stott,” she replied, rising and straightening her skirt with the flat of her hand – a last ditch and, with any luck, heavily disguised attempt at moisture control. “Pleased to meet you.”

She took his hand, noting approvingly that he held hers firmly, and his large brown eyes wrinkled warmly into another grin. To Emma’s relief, he revealed no obvious sign of distaste at the dampness in her palm he must surely have noticed.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” he said. “Come this way, please.”

The receptionist mouthed good luck with a reassuring smile. Emma nodded and with a deep, steadying breath, followed Terry back through the door through which he had entered.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Alison sends the first chapter of a lower YA fantasy, The Girl with the Dragon-racoon. The first 17 lines follow, the rest is after the break.

Twenty minutes into her journey, and with at least twenty more to come, Emma fought the urge to pull into a side road and turn around, her irritation at being deceived rising. Not that she should have been surprised, given all the other instances where the truth had been bent a little. This would have to be the last time, whatever happened. She’d had enough.

Time, alarmingly, was marching on. Maybe a straight section of road would be just around the next corner, and she’d be able to go a little faster. At least to the speed limit. She rounded the bend, peering ahead, and the sight that greeted her had her hitting the brake hard, teeth clenched, hands tight around the steering wheel. A flatbed truck was approaching, only on her side of the road as it attempted to pass another vehicle.

The truck swung back to its own side, tipping perilously as it did so, and the driver, erudite fellow as he must have been, leaned out of his open window and flicked her a V sign whilst mouthing furious profanities.

Emma’s mouth fell open and she watched the truck disappear through her rear view mirror. Charming, she thought. Well good luck to him. It mattered little to her that his life expectancy would likely be short, but she felt sorry for any innocent party he might end up taking out with him. It was a scary thought – destiny dictating that you would cross paths with the likes of him, and being a safe and conscientious driver would matter not. Your fate would be (snip)

The writing is just fine in this opening, and it does open with an immediate scene. There’s a bit of tension with the oncoming truck, but that’s soon resolved. Emma is anxious, needing to get somewhere without breaking a time limit.

But where? Why? Does something on this page endanger her from achieving her goal? What are the stakes of not being on time? If it’s a job interview, it could mean the loss of the opportunity—but we don’t know that. And how bad can that be?

And that’s the primary problem for me with this opening. There’s no hint of what the story is about, it is devoted solely to driving to somewhere, and nothing goes wrong with that. In a recent post on Writer Unboxed, author Kathyn Craft says this:

Effective opening scenes orient your reader to a story’s core conflict while raising pertinent questions about the plot to come.

That’s basically what I advocate here on FtQ. In this opening scene, we don’t have an idea of what the story is about, much less its core conflict (and I’m talking about the whole chapter here, not just the first page). There are no story questions raised. No stakes related to either action or inaction. In other words, no tension to drive a reader to turn the page.

I think we have here a narrative that starts way too soon in the arc of the story. This is all setup, not story. The writing is good and Alison has a clear grasp of her character, so I encourage her to look further for the place where something goes wrong for Emma that is related to the story and begins to show how she deals with it. And there should be meaningful stakes—not getting a job is, ordinarily, not a terrible event.